


Spoonfed

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Incest, M/M, Post-Sburb, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-04
Updated: 2012-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-30 14:08:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/332578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Playing the game is way in the past, and at this point John has had his head thoroughly spun and scanned and examined and it’s determined that he’s handling his share of PTSD pretty well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spoonfed

**Author's Note:**

> Request from a fic giveaway on Tumblr.

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Playing piano in the jazz band is probably about the coolest thing John has ever done in school. He knows that’s not saying much as far as cool is concerned, but it’s fun to play music with other people and he’s actually good at it, and when concert season rolls around in the spring it gives him a reason to wear a suit, which is pretty frickin’ sweet.

So all in all it’s a good deal.

More importantly, it’s something he can do that makes his dad proud that he can be proud of too, and that’s a great feeling. His dad is always praising him for one thing or another, it seems, and that’s great and all but it’s usually a lot of stupid crap, like just the fact that he’s a decent guy and doesn’t cause trouble.

And there was the saving the world thing, but he’s got mixed feelings on that.

He’s had mixed feelings ever since the game, actually.

It just takes a lot out of a kid to travel through space and make friends with aliens and see a lot of awful things happen. It makes him look at the world differently, look at his dad differently. He stumbled upon the guy’s corpse, after all, which is enough to mess with anybody’s head. Throw in the news that his dad isn’t really so much his father but his brother, and even then only a half-brother, and even then only a half-brother that he’s brought into existence in a roundabout way because ectobiology is seriously messy and confusing-

Throw all that in and it’s enough to make anybody’s head spin.

But that’s all way in the past, and at this point John has had his head thoroughly spun and scanned and examined and it’s determined that he’s handling his share of PTSD pretty well. Better than Jade at least, who would not stop crying for like, a week after the game, from both happy and sad and a whole lot of “I don’t even know, I just can’t stop,” and still gets all weird and sniffly and angry sometimes.

Better than Dave, probably, because Dave likes to pretend like he’s not even bothered by any of it.

Maybe even better than Rose, though she’s got a way better understanding of the problem than he does, thanks to all her reading and researching, but a lot of the time won’t talk about how she’s feeling.

John doesn’t try to understand it, but at least he’s accepting it. He’s put it all in context and thought it through and tried to learn from things.

He’s learned not to be so gullible, that sometimes a joke really isn’t funny, and more than anything he’s learned not to take anyone for granted.

So now when his dad tells him he’s proud of him, he takes it seriously. He makes a conscious effort to make the guy proud of him, and for a while it all works out pretty smoothly.

But the fact still stands that he’s pretty screwed up in the head, even if he is handling it surprisingly well, and he’s still got mixed feelings.

He figures his dad has a lot of the same problems going on, which is understandable since he’s been through a lot too, but he’s sort of too nice of a guy to push his problems on other people.

John isn’t quite so nice. Which is funny, because it always surprises people when he’s anything less than perfectly sweet. But he’s not exactly a saint and he wishes people would remember that! It’d make him feel better about, well, a lot of things. Things like pushing his problems off on his dad- brother- ectocreation- whatever.

He’d feel better about looking for validation around every corner and expecting it in a way he probably shouldn’t, and he’d feel a little better about doing things he knows are wrong.

Maybe.

He’s spoiled, is the main thing. But he’s always been a little spoiled, he’s old enough to realize that now.

Like right here, on the drive home. He can practically see the coddling in action.

He smiles and nods along as his dad compliments him on his performance, answers his questions about the music and waits eagerly for further praise, grins when he gets it, spoiled rotten.

His dad asks him if he wants anything, anything at all, since they’re out anyway and sure most stores are closed by now but heck, he’ll get him something if he needs it.

John shrugs and shakes his head and says he’s fine, smiles more.

When they get back it’s late and John hangs back a little, lets his dad open the front door and watches him dodge an expertly placed bucket of pranking confetti. He thinks of Dave’s brother, some kind of weird ninja, and tries to put his dad in the same ranks.

He is his half-brother after all.

But then, Dave’s bro is actually sort of his dad. So maybe not the best comparison.

But it’s a comparison he’s made before, while trying to figure out the way of things and work out what’s okay, and in the end it’s a wash because no amount of familial figuring disrupts what feels right in the moment and sometimes feelings don’t even enter into it, when it comes down to just plain needs.

He rolls his eyes while his dad lectures him about using bargain brand confetti that shreds too easily, takes off his dress shoes and leaves them by the stairs to bring up later.

He insists that he’s not hungry, since he isn’t, and stands around taking up space long enough that his dad mentions, for the third time that night, that he looks downright dashing in his suit.

He claims that he’s going to go take a shower and head to bed, but never really makes a move to do so. He leans against the arm of the couch and swaps puns with his dad while he’s packing his briefcase for the next day and eventually announces that no, really he’s going to go take a shower, he swears it.

He accepts a hug goodnight, a hug of congratulations on a great concert, and doesn’t squirm away. He hugs back and holds on, hides his face in the collar of his dad’s shirt and thinks he’s getting too old for this, too tall. He never makes a move to head for the shower.

He feels a healthy heartbeat and thinks of his father’s corpse and his brother in front of him and the mysterious space machine that made them all and of Karkat, insisting he’s a god, and laughs into his dad’s chest.

When asked what’s bothering him, because his dad can tell a happy laugh from a sad laugh like magic, he says it’s nothing.

But he’s spoiled and he can’t handle it, not on his own, so he asks if they can sit down and once they’re on the couch, he can talk.

He spills what he’s thinking about life and death, about a fear of asteroids and the weird things that happen in his dreams, in his nightmares, about how he completely screwed up that E flat in the third song, spits it all out in a frustrated flood.

He presses his face to his brother-his father-his accidental invention’s chest till his glasses go askew and he hears that he’s safe, he’s fine, he’s better than fine because he’s an incredible person and it’s okay for him to dream about strange things and really, no one even noticed the E flat.

He hears that he shouldn’t worry so much because he’s so proud of him.

It’s everything John was expecting, exactly what he needs, and he feels like a spoiled brat but his dad doesn’t utter a single word of complaint when he crawls right into his lap, clings to him and tells him he misses Karkat and Terezi and Vriska, oh god, Vriska, and everyone else and he should be over this now but he can’t get over it, he just can’t.

He can’t handle it and he has to distract himself, nuzzle the clean-shaven side of his dad’s face and think hard on how that face looks a little like his own, sort of not at all, think that it doesn’t matter what he looks like as long as he’ll hold him and tell him he’s going to be okay.

And he is. He’s going to be okay. This is going to be okay. It’s all fine because he’s safe with his dad, his brother, he’s got the result of his own scientific meddling under his hands and it’s okay.

John kisses his cheek, his neck, his crisp collar, and asks with a ‘please.’

He’s a brat, a spoiled brat and he gets what he wants, always gets what he wants and when he squirms and asks if it really is okay, if he wants it too, he gets the same nervous glance as always, the same shamed, guilty swallow. He gets a yes and feels the strongest sense of relief, of satisfaction.

Maybe he’d be more ashamed if he wasn’t expecting this, if he didn’t know damn well that he isn’t a saint.

He shrugs off his dashing suit jacket and pulls two ties loose, sets aside one hat, one pair of glasses as he works his hips, makes his heart pound, makes his lungs struggle to keep up.

Familiar hands hold him steady, his unintentional creation’s, his brother’s, his father’s hands.

He guides those hands to his pants, working around fabric, and when he removes his own from the equation he’s still got deft fingers sliding over hot skin, working him up, making him forget what had him bothered in the first place.

He moans a lot of nonsense and hears sounds echoed back in a voice pitched just a touch deeper than his own, cancels the noise out entirely in a desperate kiss, cutting off his own near-sob.

His fingers scrabble at a belt, at comfortable cotton blends, at skin and hair. He repeats his ‘please’ when he pauses to breathe, just as polite as he was raised to be.

He’s clumsy, always a little clumsy, but getting better, and as long as he’s getting a gasp in response, a shudder to match his own, he guesses he’s doing alright.

He’s almost choked up, almost slipping, but then he hears a halting, muttered comment about dry cleaning bills and he can’t not laugh. He loses himself in that instead, laughing hard, panting and clinging to the giddy feeling that rises in his chest. He thinks of flying and the heat sparking up his spine is immediate.

He falls forward, worn out from emotion, forces his even-clumsier hands to work. He does his best, which is all he ever has to do, and his father’s hands take hold of his hips, tensing, tightening, till he relaxes and breathes out a shuddering gasp against John’s neck.

They stay twisted up together and John remembers that he should take a shower and get to bed.

He huddles in closer, holds on tighter.

He worries aloud that even though he’s definitely not a saint, maybe he’s just a bad person, but gets shushed to silence as his dad ruffles his hair up, strokes it back down.

He’s a good kid, his dad insists, a good person.

He’s spoiled, is what he is. He thinks this, won’t say it.

He closes his eyes against clean, pressed cotton, breathes the scent of tobacco, and lets his mixed feelings keep mixing. 

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End file.
